


The Stag and the Fawn

by theredstag



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: ALL THE BROMANCE, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Bittersweet, Blood and Injury, Bromance, Character Development, Childbirth, Drinking, During Canon, Epic Bromance, Eventual Charthur, Explicit Language, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Graphic Description, Gun Violence, I mean serious bromance, M/M, Mpreg, Object Penetration, Other, Period-Typical Homophobia, Possible Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Secret pregnancy, Slow Burn, Smoking, Spoilers, Torture, Tragedy/Comedy, as in character as possible considering the tags, as realistic as it can get considering the tags, its possible because ufos and time travel is also possible in red dead somehow, male pregnancy and all that gunk, micah bell is still an asshat, not an omega verse fic, post-partum issues, ships possible later / undecided, sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29274945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredstag/pseuds/theredstag
Summary: Having survived a near deadly ambush by the O’Driscolls, Arthur Morgan returns to the gang at Horseshoe Overlook, unknowing bringing with him what could be considered a gift or curse- a new fork in the road...  The life of a child. One that Arthur must keep secret from both the enemy and the van der Linde gang alike.Takes place starting at Horseshoe Overlook and occurs during the story with occasional canon divergence all the way to Beaver Hollow. (read tags)(Non-omega verse. Sorry omega fans.)
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 15
Kudos: 46





	1. Prologue

** The Stag & the Fawn  **

**Warnings:** Rape/Non-Con, Violence, Mpreg, Childbirth, Animal Death, mature themes, language, violence, gore, sodomy... (see remainder of tags)   
  
**Note** : this is not omega-verse.  
  
To avoid spoilers, I will **not** be including ( **TW** ) before chapters but have included content that may be expected in tags. This fiction is rated mature and is not for those faint of heart. I do not wish to offend anyone or indirectly cause harm or trigger anyone due to the mature/violent nature of this story so please read at your own risk and read the tags to know what to expect. Please also note that I do not approve of any sort of abusive behavior, homophobia, racism, or any content in real life _(that may appear in this story)_ that may bring emotional, mental, or physical harm to another person or animal. This is solely a work of fiction and in no way is a representation of my personal morale. 

(Please see end of chapter for further notes) 

<3 

**\-----------------**

It hurt.

With each movement of the walker’s gait upon the uneven terrain, it hurt. Like a flash of scorching hot lightning traveling up his spine with each rock and dip as he struggled to remain in the squeaking saddle, the leather toughened by days of rain. 

Arthur Morgan grinded his teeth, digging the toes of his boots into the irons, cursing himself for not conditioning the damn thing as if it would provide a fraction of relief from the constant ache.

Despite never being religious, Arthur prayed. He prayed he was close as the borders of his vision continued to blur and blacken. 

It was taking too long. 

Trotting was impossible, cantering was nauseating, and walking… Well, walking was too damn slow.

Pressing a hand to his low back, Arthur cradled his spine and stretched, muffling a groan through his clenched jaw as the phantom, burning pain shot up his backside and snaked into his thighs. 

He moaned, feeling his belly roll. One hand went to grip his uneasy stomach, the other quickly tethering the reins to the saddle horn. Clumsily, Arthur released one stirrup as the bile soured his tongue knowing he was unable to dismount in time and he craned over the side of Galahad’s shoulder, unceremoniously releasing the contents of his stomach. 

Darkness pulsed in his vision, his pulse thundering in his temples with each heave and contraction of his exhausted form. He sputtered and gagged and choked on the foul, yellow liquid, spitting a string of thick saliva into the gravel below until he was finished. When he was certain his will to live was waning, he buried his head into the horse's mane, moaning. 

“Who goes there?!”

A voice shot out from the treeline before him. A surge of fire raked through his veins and Arthur lifted his head, blinking away the haze clogging his vision. 

The husky voice was oh so familiar but oh so distant, so strange it seemed alien even as the weathered outlaw laid eyes on the campsite ahead. 

“Identify yourself!” Came the voice once more, followed by the cock of a shotgun. 

_Home…_

Arthur stared into the distant glow of the scout fire, the shapes of wagons and tents silhouetted against the plateau of Horseshoe Overlook. 

_I’m home…_

A weak smile spread upon his lips and he sighed into Galahad’s mane, lazily patting the horse's neck.

“G’boy..”

“Last chance! Identify yourself or…” 

Arthur glanced up, recognizing the dark figure emerging from the thick brush, shotgun aimed and at the ready. As quickly as he had come armed, Charles Smith halted, lowering the firearm with a sigh of relief and mild annoyance upon recognition of his friend. 

“Arthur. Identify yourself next time. You know we…”

Nodding, Arthur croaked with a weary wave of his hand. “Sure, sure.” 

Charles froze, the whites of his eyes growing as he studied the weary outlaw before him. “Arthur… Are you hurt?”

“Huh?” Arthur slurred.

As Galahad moved into the glow of the nearby scout fire, Charles Smith felt his blood run cold. He had last remembered Arthur leaving camp with John, Bill and that weasley O’Driscoll three days prior, donned in his weathered blue button down, his tanned leather jacket and raggedy work pants. Arthur’s shirt was light blue, he was certain. He had worn it damn near every day Charles had known him. 

But all the young native could see in the flickering light of the fire was red.

It spilled down Arthur’s neck as if his throat had been slit, drenching the front of his clothing, staining the faded work pants black. The shirt clung wetly to his exposed chest, scarlet rivulets staining his face and throat, the substance even coating the man’s forearms and hands as they gripped the stallion’s mane tight.

Charles swooned, stammering- “Arthur. What happened?”

Arthur’s empty stare met his younger companion’s, the blues of his eyes devoid of emotion. Devoid of the life Charles had seen so often. Even when the man was pissed or hell, piss-drunk, Arthur always had a flicker of fire in his eye, that Charles had always admired. But now it was vacant.

Black. 

The man before him was a husk. 

And covered in blood. 

As his pulse began to beat wildly in his chest, Charles called out, “Dutch! Hosea! It’s Arthur! We need help!” 

  
Arthur twitched in recognition, grunting as if being woken from a deep slumber. Once again recognizing where he was, Arthur waved lazily, “S’okay, Charles. I’m okay.” 

Desperate to prove himself, Arthur squeezed Galahad’s sides, pushing him to walk past the pale scout. Charles blinked, beginning to question his own judgment. Maybe Arthur was drunk after all. The man always was stubborn as a mule. Maybe it was from a hunt. Maybe it was from a close call. Maybe... 

Maybe he was just seeing things. 

  
Charles followed hesitantly behind the paint horse as Arthur spurred him towards the nearest hitching post, the camp erupting into life as they made their way into the light. 

Dutch trudged through the camp in his red union suit, fists clenched by his sides, heated that he had been drawn from a restful slumber. “Mr. Smith, what is it?”

Uncertain himself, Charles threw his hands in the air motioning wordlessly towards the seemingly inebriated outlaw, befuddled by both Arthur’s appearance and his behavior. 

Arthur lolled his head back with a roll of his eyes, releasing his stirrups and gripped the saddle, swinging his right leg over the horse’s rump with a grumble- “I toldju, I’m-”

As his boots connected with the frozen ground, Arthur gasped as an agonizing pain flared through his backside and up his spine once again, freezing him in place. A weak whimper escaped his lips, the pain shooting through him lightning fast, igniting every cell in his body into scorching hot flame. The fight to stay on his feet a losing battle, Arthur fell onto his back, unable to contain the scream rising from his raw throat.

Charles was the first at Arthur’s side. "Arthur?"!

The outlaw snarled through the agony wracking his form, writhing on the ground, unable to speak. 

Hosea, having heard the chilling noise echo across camp, scrambled to his feet from his bedroll, rustling his grouchy bunkmate from his sleep and clumsily shoved past their leader to Charles. Susan Grimshaw was quick in his wake, stumbling over her gown in the darkness, each figure in camp drawn from their peace and quiet and into chaos. 

“Arthur!” Charles attempted once again, his voice strained in worry. 

Upon arriving, Hosea nearly shoved Charles aside, blanching as he laid eyes on his boy who had become unresponsive. “What happened?”

“No clue, he just… Collapsed.” Charles stuttered, watching Arthur’s pained expression fade as the man lost consciousness. 

Susan Grimshaw appeared beside the two, the color draining from her painted face, “Mister Morgan! Oh, Lord…” As quickly as she had arrived, the older woman turned on her heel, gathering her bustle and darted through the camp for medical supplies and the Reverend. “Mister Swanson!”

Hosea snapped into action, swallowing his fear and shoving his skyrocketing anxiety aside to aide his son. “Bill! Get your ass over here!” Calming himself with a breath of cold air, Hosea turned to Charles. “I need you to carry him to his tent.” 

Without hesitation, Charles nodded. “Of course.” 

Bill Williamson stomped through the camp, his bushy brows knitted in fury, the veins on his arms popping as he clenched his fists and approached. “What the hell is it, old man?” 

But as he too marched into the light, he saw what lay before him and the blood that covered his elder’s body from head to toe. Bill quickly bit his rogue tongue. “Holy Christ.” 

“Williamson!” Hosea snapped. 

Dozens of questions ran through Bill’s mind, and he was certain the same questions were running rampant through the others. He froze; the blood that ran so hot and furious through his veins instantly turned to ice.

He had seen Arthur only three days before. The man had stood his ground, taking the lead on the raid of Six Point Cabin, ending the lives of at least a dozen O’Driscoll boys without so much as breaking a sweat. That’s how Arthur Morgan was. How he always knew the gruff outlaw. 

He had faith in Dutch, faith in the gang, and faith in Arthur. Faith that left him confident enough to leave the man behind at the cabin without an extra gun. Faith that Arthur had always made it out okay. Faith that Arthur would always be all right. 

But he wasn’t all right. He had heard the man’s scream travel throughout the plateau. It was chilling, one that only a man in pure agony would release. It was the same sound he heard many a time in the battlefield. The many screams that still plagued his dreams. 

But Bill turned over in his bedroll, certain the sound was only a nightmare. 

But it wasn't. It was real. 

Without another word, Bill helped Charles with the unconscious figure of his elder, hoisting the large man by his legs. 

Whispers filled the camp as Charles, Bill and Hosea moved with haste towards Arthur’s tent, hardly batting an eye at their leader who stood statuesque in place, staring silently at the sight before him.

Dutch watched Grimshaw and the Reverend rush across camp, drawing the eyes of everyone who had been shaken from their sleep. Mary-Beth, Tilly, Karen, Sadie, Herr Strauss, Molly, Pearson, and even that mousy Kieran exchanged words of concern. But not Dutch. 

He watched Hosea coach Charles and Bill. He watched them lay the motionless figure of his boy in the cot. He watched Grimshaw and the Reverend swarm Arthur's tent. He only watched. 

And he could only listen. 

“Get that shirt off him, we need to find the source of the bleeding!” Hosea directed. Grimshaw went to work quickly, grimacing when her delicate fingers brushed over the stained blue fabric.

“Mr. Matthews, this doesn’t look fresh.” Carefully, she peeled the stiffening lapels away from Arthur’s chest, the fabric crinkling as drying blood was ripped from his skin and hair. 

“Grimshaw is right.” Charles announced to his own relief as he too studied Arthur in the light of the camp and pointed to a laceration on the left side of Arthur’s ribcage. “Look. He’s already bandaged it.” 

Bill, Grimshaw and Orville Swanson looked to Hosea for confirmation. The old man chewed on his lip, shaking his head.

“That little thing wouldn’t merit this much bloodshed.”

Stifling a wet cough, Hosea glanced over his shoulder, finding his pale old friend approaching at a snail’s pace.

“Dutch! Get over here, you bastard!” 

As if struck by a cattle prod, Dutch blinked, and immediately snapped into action, stomping over to hover by Hosea’s side.

“Has he said anything?” 

Charles shook his head. “No. One moment he was… Okay, I suppose, the next..”

Trailing off, they observed Grimshaw gently scrub the dirt and blood from their fallen comrade, her rouged lips pulling into a wobbly frown.

“Oh, dear…” 

Dutch could feel his heart leap within his chest, his pulse skipping a beat. “What is it?”

Miss Grimshaw dismissed the Reverend with a wave of her hand, drawing suspicion from the crowd that had convened at Arthur’s wagon. 

“Poor thing looks like he’s been to Hell and back. He’s been roughened up, may have a few broken ribs, but…” 

Growling, Dutch dug his nails into his palms. “But _what_ , Miss Grimshaw?”

Grimshaw sighed, combing her fingers through the unconscious man’s dirty brown hair and turned back to those who had gathered at his wake, her voice and words haunting.

“This isn’t Arthur Morgan’s blood.” 

\-----------------   
  
A/N:   
  
This is only a prologue and most chapters will be much longer than this (That is, if anyone out there is actually interested in reading this sick fanfiction.) I guess we'll see how it goes. I've had this idea for a long time now ever since I started playing and wrote out several scenes including the entire plot (Wait, it's a fanfiction with a plot?). So maybe I will upload the whole thing depending if anyone reads it, if not, I am still content with it being in my mind palace.   
  
That being said, this is my first fanfiction in over 10 years and the first time I have written a fiction in 3rd person in over 5 years. It's ALSO the first fiction I've written that is not primarily comedy. I usually only write comedy but have an occasional craving for something much darker, hence the birth (pun intended) of this fiction. While I have several other works out there on the internet, I am working under a new (anonymous) tag due to the nature of this fiction. I'm also rusty with writing authors notes so please bear with me here...  
  
(I also want to mention I am dyslexic and have difficulty spotting typos even after re-reading content 5+ times so please have mercy if there are any D: )   
  
Like it? Hate it?   
  
Any feedback is appreciated!   
  
<3 TheRedStag. 


	2. The Pack

“This isn’t Arthur Morgan’s blood.” 

All heads turned to the older woman as she continued to clean the blood off of Arthur’s face. Brows arched, their gawks and unease dissolving into disbelief. Hosea darted an eye towards Dutch, the dark haired man having gone dead silent, his own black eyes staring blankly at the bloodied form before him and the words that haunted him to his core. 

It was no surprise for anyone to see Arthur returning to camp covered in what he excused as ‘battle scars’ or ‘trophies’ from his last hunt or near death experience. The man wore blood like a badge of honor, carelessly allowing the remains of his enemies to remain on his clothing only to have Grimshaw drag him towards the water trough to wash himself clean and even earn a hefty slap and scolding if he were being stubborn. Which was usual in Arthur’s case. 

If the gang didn’t know any better, they would believe Arthur was hydrophobic for his detest and blatant disregard for cleanliness. But despite his aversion towards a neat wardrobe, even the old outlaw would pale at the amount of blood that now clung to his body like a new skin. 

Loosening the phlegm from his throat with a forced cough, Hosea softened his voice. “Susan, what do you mean?”

Grimshaw tossed the soiled rag back into the water bucket with a sigh, “I mean, aside from a scratch and a little bump on the head, Mr. Morgan doesn’t seem to be much worse for wear.”

Bill Williamson stared at the woman and back down to Arthur, snorting with a wry chuckle. “Are you blind? Have you not seen all that blood? The man’s bathed in it!”

Grimshaw rolled her eyes, “Yes, Mister Williamson, I believe the entire camp is very well aware.”

“But-”

“She’s right.” Charles interjected, “That much blood… This didn’t come from only one man.” 

Hosea swooned, struggling to piece together exactly what he was hearing and seeing, his eyesight growing brighter by the second. For a brief moment, he glanced in Dutch’s direction, only met with more silence and a stony stare in his dark eye. “Bill, Charles… Give us a moment alone with Miss Grimshaw.” 

Charles nodded, Bill wavered, but both exited the tent- all other onlookers moving as one to return to their own tents in hestiance. 

Hosea peeked once more in the direction of his leader then cleared his throat and spoke lowly. “Grimshaw, you’re saying nothing’s wrong with him?”

Scoffing, Grimshaw tossed down the bloodied rag as if it needed further confirmation, “I ain’t no doctor, Mr. Matthews. You’re welcome to look him over if you wish.” 

“Dutch?” Hosea nudged his superior in the arm, egging him for a response.

To Dutch, the world had become silent. 

He stared at Arthur the same way he had stared those four years ago. The four years ago that another bloodied figure that resembled one he loved had dragging themselves back into camp.

It had been a night just as calm as the one in Horseshoe Overlook. Not a cloud in the midnight sky, only the rifts and valleys of the stars above them. There was laughter. Fire. Life. 

He had hardly even noticed that Arthur had gone- hardly even noticed that _she_ was gone. It had only been a few hours. 

Only a few hours that changed his life forever when she came stumbling into the light of the fire, her yellow bodice painted red, the blood dribbling down her lips as she gargled and drowned in her own life force-

_“Dutch!”_

_Anabe-_

_“Dutch!”_

“Dutch!" 

“Huh?” Dutch blinked, stumbling back on his heels, his vision blurred, his visions fogging and then she was gone and he was back staring at Hosea, Grimshaw and- 

-And Arthur. A cold sweat broke on his hairline, trickling down his spine and for a brief moment, Dutch believed he would be sick. There was too much. 

  
Too much blood. 

Clenching his fists, fighting the rising bile in his belly, Dutch did the only thing he could do. He swallowed it down and cleared his voice, trying to mask the shakiness in his tight, dry throat. “I… I-I think you have this, Hosea. Keep him warm. Make sure he’s all right. You can do that right, Old Girl?”

Hosea leered at him before responding distantly, “Sure.” 

Dutch crinkled his brow, a twitch in his lip, more than anxious to flee the scene and place his mind elsewhere. “Grimshaw, if you don’t mind. Let me know when he wakes up.” 

Grimshaw rolled her eyes, dabbing the dried dirt and blood from Arthur’s brow, “I’m going to let the poor man rest for Lord’s sake. You and Mr. Matthews can hound him all you want in the morning.” 

With a curt nod, Dutch backed out of the tent, followed hawkishly by Hosea’s narrowed eye until he retreated into the sanction of his own tent. Sighing heavily, the older man took a knee beside the woman, studying the figure of his unconscious protege. 

As she moved down to roll up Arthur’s sleeves, Grimshaw let out a long held breath. “He’ll be all right, Mr. Matthews. He’ll come around. In his own way.” 

“I know.” Hosea forced a smile. 

But it hadn’t always been that way. 

Even after Anabelle. 

Perhaps there was something else. Because something changed. 

Something changed in Blackwater. Something changed Dutch. Changed Arthur. Changed all of them. Horseshoe Overlook and the migration from the depths of an icy Hell had been enough to distract all of them from the tragedy that had struck only seven weeks before. 

What Hosea missed was the West. Perhaps Arthur missed it even more. New Hanover was a new start however. The journey was tumultuous and dangerous but they made it. The mess in Blackwater was a massacre that had claimed three of their family’s lives, but they made it. The state of Nebraska was far from what they were used to, taking refuge just on the outskirts of Valentine, but they made it.

They had women and a child in tow to worry about, but they made it.

They fought wolves, enemy gangs, Pinkertons, but they always made it.

And Arthur…

Perhaps Arthur had suffered the worst of it all. The death of his mother, hanging of his father, the fractured remains of a hopeless engagement, the twists and turns that came with parenthood at an early age, the responsibility that fell heavily on shoulders that were too young, the love and adoration for a child- a son- only to have that love torn away only to be commemorated in a small wooden cross. Through battles and bloodshed and loss and love, they had made it. 

Despite it, _Arthur_ had made it.

Yet even as Hosea Matthews reminded himself of what Arthur Morgan had survived in his short thirty six years on earth, there was something wrong- something very wrong about what lay before him. 

“Dear boy, what the devil did you get into…?”

His weathered, red rimmed eyes scanned the man over and over, looking for anything he had possibly missed as Grimshaw worked gingerly to remove the drying blood from his flesh. 

Arthur’s brow was knit, the man unconscious but still battling invisible ways of pain, a grimace now marring his features and a throaty groan emanated from him when the older woman attempted to turn him. 

That’s when Hosea saw it. 

“Susan-?” His voice broke.

“Hmm?”

“Wh-What do you make of these?” 

He pointed to several straight purple lines running the lengths of Arthur’s forearms, each line thick and heavily bruised, blood vessels spiderwebbing at the surface. There were others too, lighter in color yet they all ran the same way, covering his arms in what appeared to be-

“Claw marks?” Susan Grimshaw inspected, lifting Arthur’s left arm to investigate further, squinting her eye to see the raw skin and bruising tattooed into his skin.

Hosea swallowed painfully. “Yes. But I don’t believe those were done by any animal.” 

Knowing dread filled the both of them as Hosea pointed again, this time right above the man’s elbows, another series of matching bloodied shapes embedded in upper arms- red crescents, ones that mirrored the dried blood encrusted underneath Arthur’s fingernails. 

Grimshaw felt herself growing light headed, “Normally, Mr. Matthews, with these kinds of wounds I would assume Mr. Morgan was in handcuffs or binds, but…” 

“No rope burn.” Hosea finished. 

Grimshaw nodded in verification, “Wrists are clean.” 

Again, Hosea let out a heavy breath. “This isn’t the work of feds, marshalls, a sheriff or any raiders south in Lemoyne. This is the work of those who know how to keep a man from any hope of escape.” 

“O’Driscolls.” Grimshaw whispered.

Hosea gritted his teeth, fighting against the fear gnawing away at his conscience, “It’s only speculation right now, Susan. If we could please, just keep this between us until he wakes.” 

“Of course.” 

Freeing the stained shirt from Arthur’s torso, Grimshaw went back to work to clean the stray blood from his figure and tossed the shirt and soiled rags into the water bucket. As she continued, Hosea watched. Eyeing the unconscious form of his boy, studying each inch of him, searching for a form of injury, a hint of any explanation.

He felt stumped. The only visible marks were the scratches on his arms, the minor laceration on his ribs encircled by an already healing bruise. 

Hosea battled with the thought of capture. Had Arthur been a victim of a kidnapping? Shaking his head, he debated further. Had Arthur been held hostage, there would have been more telltale signs, he reminded himself, attempting desperately to quell the anxious thoughts running rampant through his mind.

Remarkably, there were no bruises or marks scarring the young man’s face. No signs of a beating. Hardly any badges from battle that would merit so much ruin. 

There was just… blood. 

Hosea scanned him over and over. There was blood on his face, his neck, his sculpted chest, his rippled abdomen, the dark red blood already drying on his pants, and bright red seeping through the canvas of his cot and onto the grass below. 

Hosea stopped. 

_Bright red-_

Fresh. 

“Oh, God-” 

  
  


Across camp paced the bay paint Tennessee Walker, the seven year old stallion pawing at the dirt and nipping at its sides, swishing his thick tail at his own hide, desperate for relief. Nostrils flared, the stallion bit at his cinch, frustrated he was unable to reach to saddle when salvation came in the form of a weary Charles Smith approaching the hitching posts.

“Easy, easy boy.” Charles crooned, nearing the agitated horse, his hands presented softly. 

Galahad’s dark eyes went wide and he tossed his head, snorting loudly. 

The dark man lowered his hands, whispering gently as he reached to touch the stallion’s neck. “It’s okay.” 

The horse flinched briefly then softened under the man’s warm touch, a heavy sigh exiting through his nostrils. 

“That’s it, boy. Let me just get this off of you.” 

Charles moved to his side and elbowed the stirrup out of the way to loosen the cinch tie knot, unraveling the leather tethering the saddle to his girth. Galahad breathed a hefty sigh of relief as Charles gathered the cinch and hooked it upon the saddle horn before hoisting the whole thing and the sweat soaked saddle pad from the horse’s back.

Galahad stretched and shook from the withers to his fetlocks, jarring loose the dirty that clinged to his sweat stained coat. 

Charles set the saddle on top of the hitching post and then removed the stallion’s bridle, braiding the leather straps and reins before laying them over the post. Once the horse was bare, he pried a grooming brush from the ground, working to help the stallion loosen the strains in his coat that tugged painfully at his skin. “Easy there. That’s better, right?”

The horse snorted, licked his lips and dipped his head to the ground to begin to graze. 

“Much better…” Charles repeated to himself, brushing out the rough hairs in his coat, careful not to irritate the raw pink sores that had accumulated around his girth from continuous days of wear. 

_Huh, that’s strange._

Charles paused for a moment.

_Arthur always takes his saddle off after a ride. Always._

Charles brushed the dirt from every inch of his coat, combed out his mane with his fingers and picked the pebbles from his hooves. When satisfied, he pet the horse on the hind quarters, and returned to his tent briefly, stealing a glance in Arthur’s direction before returning to the stallion with a small tin of ointment he applied gently to the sores on Galahad’s hide. The stallion hardly flinched as Charles nursed him, the horse seemingly only interested in food after having been relieved of the source of his pain.

When he was finished, Charles gave another hefty pat on Galahad’s neck, set down the brush and swooped the hefty Kneller Dakota saddle into his arms to carry back to the scout fire.

For a moment he cursed Arthur for buying such a heavy, large saddle, the damn thing weighing near fifty pounds alone as he waddled across the horse yard to find his seat on the outskirts of the camp by the fire.

Picking up a soapy rag, Charles propped the saddle on his knee, gently scrubbing to remove the dust and condition the rough dark leather from days of neglect.

Beyond the scout fire, he could barely make out the whispers from the women’s tent and above them, the garbled low voices of Grimshaw and Hosea. A longing tugged at his mind and filled his chest with dread as he worked, attempting to remind himself it would be okay. 

Arthur would be okay, he told himself.

Arthur was always okay. 

He was certain Hosea and Dutch were telling themselves the same thing as were the rest of the camp.

But he had heard Arthur _scream_.

Charles shook off the chill that prickled at his skin, the sound of it echoing in his memory as he scrubbed anxiously at the leather seat.

That’s when he too noticed the white rag in his hand taking on another hue. 

Red. 

Bright red. 

  
  
  
  
  


“God…” Hosea choked, running a palm over his mouth. 

“Mr. Matthews?” Grimshaw arced a penciled brow.

Holstering his fear once again, Hosea provided a tight, grim smile. “Go ahead and get those clothes washed, Miss Grimshaw. I’m going to sit with our boy here for a while.” 

She halted. No doubt she too could see the color drain from his already pale face. Stumbling on her thoughts and words, she only nodded. “Of course.” 

He waited and watched Grimshaw gather his soiled clothing in her arms and trudge across the expanse of camp. He waited until he couldn’t hear any further whispers or murmurs rising in the midst of the early morning.

He waited, praying that Arthur would come to and vanquish his heavy, horrid thoughts with truth.

Hosea waited a long time until he could wait no longer.

Taking a knee beside his cot, Hosea carefully ran his calloused nimble fingers behind Arthur’s shoulder, whispering to the man as if he could hear him.

“I just want to take a look, Arthur, only a moment.” 

Hosea lifted his shoulder turning him over in his cot to check for any source of injury on his back when Arthur groaned loudly, stirring from his unresponsive state.

Hosea snapped into attention and he patted Arthur’s shoulder, “Hey, easy there.” 

Arthur's eyes flashed open, his viper like reflexes catching Hosea’s wrist in a vice, a predatory snarl etched onto his face and bared teeth. 

“Arthur! Arthur, it’s me! Hosea!” 

Hosea’s heart hammered in his chest so hard he was certain it would burst, adrenaline already souring and burning in his blood when Arthur’s wild, blue eyes met his. A moment of pure fury immediately dissolved into a furrow of recognition. 

“Hosea?” His voice strained, his chest rising and falling heavily. 

The old man sighed as the hulkish grip on him released and he fought to smile, ignoring the tears that already began to burn in his eyes. “Welcome back.”

Arthur panted as he stole glances in each direction, his breaths becoming deeper and slower with each moment of recollection that passed. 

Hosea softened his voice and reached out to pat his shoulder again. “You’re at camp. You’re okay.” 

Arthur exhaled in relief, lowering himself back onto the cot. “Oh, Hosea…” 

Hosea felt a genuine smile break onto his face and he smoothed his fingers through the man’s damp brown hair. “Who’d you think I was?”

He prepared himself for a wordy, sarcastic rebuttal from Arthur but it never came. The outlaw only struggled to regain his composure and breath, his jaw clenched in the pain that Hosea could not see and could not remedy.

Licking his dry lips, Hosea snatched the half empty bottle of whiskey from Arthur’s bedside, popping off the cork to hand to the man. 

“Here.” 

Arthur nodded briefly in thanks, taking it without argument, and downed several sloppy gulps of the burning amber liquid before choking. Immediately, Arthur twisted himself over the cot and retched, sputtering saliva and alcohol onto the grass below, remains of whiskey dribbling off of his stubble and between his bared teeth. 

Hosea cringed, prying the bottle away. “How about we try some water instead?”

Arthur nodded with a strained, “Yep.” 

The older man excused himself to allow Arthur to finish in privacy and silence. After locating a tin cup of water and a small bottle of bitters to soothe his queasy belly, Hosea returned to his tent, offering the items to the outlaw who was already bordering on unconsciousness once again.

But Hosea was patient. He waited for Arthur to stop vomiting and waited until the man could get several sips of water in his system, nudging the man along and placing the water back into his hands each time he set it down as if he were nursing a child.

“One more then you’ll be done.”

Arthur groaned and rolled his eyes, finishing off the water and laid back in his cot, holding a hand over his uneasy stomach. 

“You gave us all a pretty big scare there, Arthur.” 

The man grunted in response.

“We just want to make sure you’re okay, kid.” 

Arthur groaned, his tone anything but convincing, “Dandy.” 

Hosea frowned. It appeared Arthur had noticed the worry shining through his superior’s eyes in that moment and hitched his breath against another groan and forced himself onto his elbows, cracking a weary, feign smile. “Hosea. I’m fine.” 

The older man hardly blinked. 

Knowing he owed the man some answers, Arthur submitted with a slap on his knee. “Just got myself into a bind, y’know. A real bind. You know me.” 

Hosea lasered into him, “I know you well enough to know you’ve always been a god awful liar. That’s why I was always did the talking and you did the shooting.” 

Arthur nodded. There was no arguing with a man who would talk a dog off a meat wagon. 

Before continuing, Hosea’s voice wobbled, his need to know outweighing his rational thought to allow the man to rest. “Charles… He.. He heard you scream.” 

Arthur darted his eyes to Hosea’s, a thump in his chest registering a skipped beat. 

Hosea continued, “Hell we all did. You rolled into camp… In what we presume was someone else’s blood.” 

  
Tearing his eye away, Arthur looked to the ground and offered a shrug of reassurance. “I toldju, I got into a real bind. Must’a hurt my back in the process, might’a pulled somethin’.” 

“You want me to take a look at it?”

Arthur stared, not speaking a word.

“You know I never told you this but I am very well rehearsed in a little something called chirotherapy.”

The outlaw continued to stare, not buying it for one second. “Sure you are.” 

“Folks all around used to come and see the great Hosea Matthews for a little spinal adjustment.. At a fraction of the price, I might add.” 

“You robbed them.”

Hosea felt the anxiety dissipate, the worry lift off of his shoulders when he saw Arthur break into a half smile. “I did no such thing. I merely gave them a little adjustment, may have tweaked a muscle here and there, and they’d come running right back. Made quite a score off that alone.” 

Arthur frowned and settled back, “You’re not touchin’ a damn thing on me you old quack.” 

A soft chuckle filled the air, both men falling into brief laughter that was cut short by Arthur holding his bruised side, hissing with the ache that bloomed across his ribcage. 

“Might’ve also broke a few ribs here, Hosea…” 

“And helluva patch job you did there.” Hosea gestured towards the laceration below his pectoral. 

“Well I ain’t no doctor neither.” 

Recalling the blood and the battle wounds upon the man before him, Hosea felt the peace of the moment fade, replaced with curiosity and dread. 

“Arthur, are you sure you’re alright?”

Arthur allowed himself to relax, breathing in the cool morning air to soothe his wounds and his wired mind. He looked to Hosea, in his icy eyes, a wanting tugging at the fractures of his brain, a need to speak and find resolve. 

He only shook his head, “Don’t lose sleep over me, old man. M'fine. Jus' need a good night's sleep s'all."

Arthur could sense the hesitation in Hosea, the same hesitation that kept him from absolving both of them of the stress plaguing their minds. The old man glanced at Arthur, at the bruises littered upon his chest, the claw marks running the length of his forearms. 

Forcing himself to accept that the man needed rest, Hosea nodded, uncertain if they would ever speak of it again. “Okay, Arthur.” Moving to his feet, Hosea rustled Arthur's hair and slapped his gambler hat ontop of his dirty locks. Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” 

  
“Sure.” Arthur curved the corner of his lips into a smile and watched Hosea hesitantly depart to allow him a night’s rest. 

Once out of eye and earshot, Arthur bit down on his tongue. 

  
It hadn’t stopped. 

Maybe he was a better actor than he had thought. 

It was torment, biting through the conversation with Hosea, praying it reach its end to allow him rest and salvation from the torture that echoed through each cell in his being. 

By god, the pain hadn’t stopped.

The pain pulsing in his low back, the pain that traveled into his thighs and between his legs. It was raw, still bloodied, still fresh and still real. As much as he wished, it wasn’t a nightmare. He could feel it still. His skin burned, each touch igniting like fire upon tissue. Each movement sickening. Each whisper he swore he heard over the crackling of the fire was chilling. 

And then there was _that_ pain.

The one that throbbed with the phantom sensations of hot and cold that haunted him and _entered_ him, echoes and twangs of a distant memory polluting his mind.

That’s when he noticed it. 

Owlish, dark, wide eyes staring at him across the camp. The young man pale against the early morning light. A look of knowing written blatantly across his hollowed features, his upturned lips and the terror in his eyes. 

Kieran.

He _knew._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note:
> 
> Sorry my descriptions suck. I always thought I was better writing dialogue than descriptions. Eep. Also THANK YOU to those who are reading! After a very long outlining process, I have determined this story will probably be about 40 chapters long (no, not cause there are 40 weeks...) after summarizing each one, give or take a chapter or two. Oof. It's going to be a journey. 
> 
> Fun fact - Valentine is actually based on the small town of Valentine, Nebraska so I thought why not include that in there. It’s also very neat to see it on a map of the United States versus the map in RDR2. They’re very similar. Anyway, I just discovered that the other day and thought I would throw it in there. I’m a sucker for any kind of trivia knowledge so if you know any bits of lesser known factoids the lore of Red Dead, let me know!


End file.
